Silence. I whisper again. "Demon?"

It's not in my head. Or in front of me. Above? - Just night sky.

Behind me, the road is empty. A stretch of dark houses. One streetlamp too far away.

Stone monuments in the cemetery tower over a long wall on the other side of a narrow parking lot. A night like any other, except part of the darkness over there moves like a tree, rolls like leaves in a breeze.

If I thought like a Yakuza, I would have stayed on the train. I would have stayed among people, but my memory of pleasant walks tricked me. That's the difference between life and death. Bad things happen if you don't anticipate them. I can write a manga story, but I couldn't imagine anything really bad happening to me. That's why I'm here, doing what stupid people do, dying like stupid people do.

My mind rambles, because I'm scared. I take a moment to compose myself. There's nothing out here, just like the other nights I walked home from Jiyugaoka. Just a few minutes ago, a middle-aged woman passed by, and that patch of dark sky that roiled like leaves in the breeze is now smoother than a sheet. Because there's nothing out here with me.

I fill up with love for everybody, including Joel. My mother. My fathers, Mr. Lombardi and Robert Pirone. For my sister and Cynthia and my tolerant friends at school, especially Risa, who actually like my weird, quiet ways.

Alan Lord will be crushed that he couldn't protect me, but it's my fault if my father hates him forever. If I reach the wooden shelter in the park, I'll rest a moment and write Alan a note. He's FBI. He'll find it.

Walking was such a great idea until it wasn't. The details don't really matter, except one. Someone is following me. I pretended it was the demon, because at least the demon likes me, but someone is following me. I can't turn around fast enough, but I hear shoes, the same shoes. I've heard them for awhile, but I wasn't honest with myself about it.

And my demon doesn't wear shoes.

Even though I escaped the Yakuza and a demon, a random pervert will now get me. I will kick his balls. I will gauge out his eyes. I will bite off his nose. If I can.

I'll terrorize him.

To be honest, really honest, I'm in this situation, because I'm stupid. I shouldn't say that, but my long-term confidence isn't important right now.

The Yakuza aren't slouches. Maybe they followed me from Nakameguro. It could even be my second boyfriend. Killing me will break his heart, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. He'll rise in rank, or however it works, and he'll think of me when he's abusing other girls my age for the rest of his life. He'll pay tribute to me by calling them by my name. The world is sick, whether I'm in it or not.

Okay, I'm not really stupid. I'm just exhausted and scared. After walking for ten or fifteen minutes on empty streets, my brain functions better. Inputs from my surroundings are clearer. Dangers I couldn't compute on the train are more obvious. Bad things will happen, but it's not because I'm stupid. Things don't always work out. That's all.

My emotions are getting away from me again, swinging up, swinging down. I'm passed peak efficiency and sliding irreversibly toward total panic. Maybe that's why the Yakuza hasn't jumped me yet, or the random pervert, or the demon. It's better to let me fall apart completely. As soon as I panic, game over.

So don't panic, Makiko Lombardi. Don't panic, Makiko Pirone.

Looking the way I just came, I make a fist and wipe a few tears into my cheeks. I want to come out swinging. I love life and want to fight. If there's a way. If there's any way, I want to fight. "Hey," I say. "Go away. I'm a freak, and l will kill you."

That echoes around for what feels like a long time. Then, kitchenware sounds drift across the night from an open window. A child's high pitched voice. A car door closing, maybe on the next street.

I could knock on a stranger's door, but that would bring them my troubles. The police find houses full of death sometimes, and now I understand why. The Yakuza are professionals - big business. They'll kill whoever tries to help me. They'll kill all the witnesses.

At the entrance to the path to the park, the road bends away. The living do not proceed down the path. Except me. I walk slowly beside the bushes, steadily beside the small trees and simple wooden fence that separates me from the park. I don't know what else to do.

So I run. While looking for a stick or other weapon. My father shouldn't blame Alan for my death. If there's a way, I'll live. I'm a virgin. I'm a witch. I'm a bitch. All that. Even a whore. Everybody wants it every which way. It's messed up. It's a song, it's a chant, it's a prayer, it's a wish.

I reach the park entrance without dying. I stop and enjoy the silence. I'll be attacked, or I'll lounge around here undisturbed for hours. Both options exist, just depends on my universe. Am I lucky Makiko or unlucky Makiko?

The open side of the wooden structure beside the entrance faces a stream. I step onto its wooden floor and lean my back against the wall. I don't take off my shoes or wipe at the tears on my cheeks. The park is an open field without equipment, except for a stream to walk in and a tiny marshy area with frogs and tadpoles at certain times of the year. I slide to a sitting position, fold my hands in my lap and listen to the flowing water. I can't see the stars or sky from here, but I can listen for the sound of shoes.

We used to sit here and eat onigiri on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon - Mr. Lombardi, Sophia, and I.

I pray I imagined the shoes, because some men follow and hurt women. They think they are gods, but they're demons.

When I ran, I couldn't find a stick. All I have is the yakuyoke. It rests in my hand, and I stare at it, chanting very softly. Because I don't want to hear what I'm saying. "I hope you love me, demon. I hope you do. Please."

The soft sound of the shoes come from behind the thin wood wall against my back. I stop whispering to myself. Another step. One at a time. Slowly. Confidently.

My killer must have rushed around to the front of the park to cut me off. Now he steps around the wall and blocks my view of the open field. A sudden lump in my throat stops me from screaming.

It's not my orange-haired Yakuza. This man's face has the wear and tear of someone in his forties or fifties. His silhouette is lighter than the park behind him, so his suit may be light blue or brown.

My legs stick out straight, and my killer's pants press against the bottom of my white sneakers. The gurgling water of the stream disappears from my ears, muffled by fear and my pumping blood.

My killer smiles like an explorer finding gold. He holds out gloved hands like I'm a reward. "Stay quiet, Makiko. It's your father we want to hurt."

Even though my mouth opens, I don't think I scream. I refuse to close my eyes as the Yakuza's outstretched arms reach for me. "Sorry," I say, because the darkness above our heads roils with smoky currents. I don't know what my father is doing to help, but I have faith in the demon.

The Yakuza's head goes down. I try to stand, and so does the Yakuza, but we can't. My feet are caught underneath the black roiling blanket, and I can't move them, but the demon covers the Yakuza completely. He can't move much of anything. When he opens his mouth to speak or scream, demon material slides inside him. The Yakuza's eyes don't see for much longer, but they're riveted on me. They seem to say, "You did this."

My killer slowly shrinks, or melts. "I killed you?" I say.

I think of my father again, helping and not helping. He's trying.

No sounds escape from the Yakuza. His mouth is open, but screams don't pass through the body-crushing demon. I'm too busy looking and not looking to say anything else. I can't free my intact feet. I don't say or think, "Thank you, demon." I don't say, "Some men hurt women." I don't say, "He deserves it."

I think things. Lots of things.

After the Yakuza is completely gone and the demon blanket rests flat across the surface of my feet and the wood floor, it slowly slides up my bare legs toward the hem of my green dress. My feet and legs are pinned down. I'm as rigid as always, like I am riding in the car or sitting in class. I shake my upper body, but the edge of the demon slides up my dress. It reaches the bare skin under my chin. As it drags itself up my neck, a sizzling sensation covers me and gets closer and closer to my face, but it isn't crushing me like it did the Yakuza. I close my eyes. "Please don't hurt me."

I'm marking you, it says. Because I love you.

Characters in horror are always venturing forth into dark places where readers know they shouldn't. Did Makiko do so believably?

Most of us want to hear the words, I love you. Did they give you a chill here?

If you've read this far, I hope that means you enjoy my work enough to star chapters.

Thank you!